


cool these engines, calm these jets

by songofmyself



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofmyself/pseuds/songofmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They’ve gone in, and they will come out. Together, always.</i> Victor AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cool these engines, calm these jets

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dwelling on this kind of piece for a while, so it's really satisfying to see it finished and making some sort of sense. There is a reference to the film Taxi Driver towards the end of this that's deliberate. In some ways, I'm attempting to do the same thing that movie is - asking the question of who our heroes are, and what we've made of them. So in this oneshot, Cato and Clove are the heroes. Now, what do you make of them?

“I should have died during the Games,” she isn’t supposed to say it, but she does, with a look between _fuck it_ and _nothing worse can possibly happen_. She has a cigarette lodged between her teeth (a Capitol thing – their district was never poor, but they never had such deadly luxuries) and she’s inhaling as fast as she possibly can. The faster she does, the faster it will kill her, she hopes.

(She hopes wrong, and she knows this. They’ll fix her lungs out of spite and she’ll flip off the doctors and they’ll smile and say “you should feel lucky”.)

He snatches her cigarette and takes a long drag himself, and it becomes one of those moments when she realizes they share the same thoughts, the same sentiments. Hate, and wishes, and more hate.

Releasing the cigarette from his lips, he looks her in the eyes, as he always has. As he always will.

“No,” he’s emphatic about this. “ _We_ should have died during the Games.”

Then the cigarette falls gracefully, nonchalantly from his hand, leaving her to stomp the light out – in more ways than one. She meets him with a smirk on her lips and in her eyes, because she knows. They’ve gone in, and they will come out. Together, always.

 

 

She’s called to the Capitol first. It was to be expected; she’s a girl, she’s young, and presumably _intact_.

(That’s one thing they’ll never have, because she refuses to give it to them. Cato’s happy to oblige, and even though it _hurts_ – it does a little bit less, always a little bit less in their world.)

He’s middle-aged and disgusting and calls her _princess_ and even though she doesn’t know it then, he will be her most loyal customer.

She cries her first night alone and thinks of the girl from District 12 and how much they all loved her, and how much they’ve all forgotten her.

Caesar called her _Clovey_ during her first interview as a victor, and she grinned – because they cared enough to give her a nickname, to make her the center of attention.

They care about the person who spills the blood. It makes her inhumane and desirable and all the things that are beautiful and terrible in their world.

Once daybreak hits, she concludes that caring is futile.

They care just enough to use her – until everything but the blood boiling in her veins is either spilled or dried up.

 

 

Cato screams on his first night. Their rooms are soundproof – supposedly to allow them peace of mind, but knowingly, and assuredly leading the way to insanity.

He screams until his throat is raw and Clove is terrified, her eyes wide and her arms reaching out, but he pulls away, far away, until he is against the wall and there is nowhere else to go – attempting to hide the bruises and the cuts forming from nails that dug in too deep.

Once she is sure that he has stopped and has resorted to violent shakes, slumped against the wall that he backed into, she sits down next to him and puts his head on her lap. Then she just shushes him calmly, though he isn’t speaking and definitely has nothing to say. But she does so to offer him some stability, and eventually he falls asleep – peace and quiet, peace and quiet.

Even though she is younger, she knows more – about unhinging yourself, about finding the pieces because she has to, because keeping on is better than stopping and thinking.

She’ll teach him, and he’ll learn: it’s better to waste away silently.

 

 

Her sixteenth birthday comes as quickly as it goes – the Capitol works her again, and again, and again, and she knows it’s not a coincidence, but she doesn’t outwardly question it.

It’s almost midnight when she unlocks Cato’s room. He’s smirking and holding a cupcake, colored in a vibrant purple and topped with a rose made out of sugar, and she laughs because she can’t help herself – even though she was sure she had forgotten how to.

They split it and she dabs icing on his nose with a mischievous grin – the one she holds for the cameras. Then he smiles, a real smile, and she’s reminded she doesn’t need to put up the façade at that moment – she’s forgotten how to differentiate.

He glances outside of his window, to the black Capitol skyline, raising a hand to point. “Their _Clovey_ ,” he says it in sickingly sweet manner, mocking them all. Then he rests his eyes on her again, and his finger pokes her chest. “My Clover.”

Their foreheads meet, hands clasped as the day ends.

And even though she lets go because she has to, she tucks it away in her memories for safekeeping – that time of _we’re young, imperfect, and fuck you all._

 

The first time the doctors fix her is after she’s in bed for weeks, convulsing and coughing up blood – sick enough to suffer, but not sick enough to die, so the Capitol leaves her for as long as they possibly can. Cato’s not allowed to see her, but she is sure they’re working him twice as hard to pick up her slack.

When it’s over and she’s shiny and brand new – impeccable lungs, and a cleaner face to make sure she never looks _worn out_ – she’s clearly ungrateful.

“I didn’t ask you to _fix me._ ”

“You didn’t have to, darling.” The doctor has a grin pasted on his face, and refuses to relinquish it, even in light of her true personality.

Cato can see her then, rushing in as soon as the doctor leaves. He is bruised and battered, but he is _there_ – and she is stuck between wishing for death and knowing that she can’t leave him, because they’ve known nothing but togetherness.

 

 

A year down the line, the Capitol asks for them as a couple. It is a man who summons them, and before Clove is able to taste to bile creeping its way up her throat, he requests that he be able to watch instead of participate.

She and Cato, of course, complete the task, but it is as meaningless as she can possibly make it.

He is gentle with her, but she abuses him, biting and scratching and being the best _Clovey_ she can possibly be, but at the end she strokes his cheek – her silent apology.

She can and will love him in private, but that – and he – is hers to enjoy, and they will never be able to delight themselves in her joy and misery.

 

 

On the night she is brave enough to stay with him, he has a nightmare about the Games – he doesn’t tell her about it, but she hears his mumblings about the star-crossed lovers of District 12, the tragedy they became. (Once the Games were over, the Capitol tried to sell them as the star-crossed lovers of District 2 to the cameras, but they refused, claiming they hated each other – better that then share their affection with the rest of the world. It was the one freedom they were given, before the world caved in around them.)

She doesn’t sleep, only waits for him to wake himself up. When he does, she whispers to him, eyes downcast – she can’t bear to look at him, not now, not when they’re talking about the things driving them insane.

“No use having nightmares when you’re living in one.” She traces a scar across her forearm with a finger as she says this, and though she first tries to figure out if it’s from the Games or Capitol work, she stops wondering – no matter which way it goes, it’s all a game, really.

 

 

She feels selfish one day and slits her wrists with the one knife she saved from the Games, but they wrestle her out of her room before her blood has even spilled. Then the hospital is her home again and she’s angrier than she was before – at herself, at the Capitol, at her blood for always refusing to spill, _always_.

She’s not sure if Cato isn’t allowed to visit, but in any case, he doesn’t, and she’s ashamed – letting him down, surely, knowing that he has yearned to do what she has just done, but restrained himself for her.

Snow visits, and she doesn’t even attempt to exchange pleasantries.

“ _Fuck. You._ ” She’s clawing at her bandages that are covering up her newly placed, still-healing skin until they strap her down. “You fucking did this to me! To _us_! You fucking – bastard!” Every word is a knife in _her_ chest, rather than his – all he does is smile and say that he’s glad to see she’s doing better, and then he’s gone.

Her new skin still leaves scars on both of her wrists, and Snow arranges for her first client out of the hospital to be someone overly sensitive – he glances at the newly formed imperfections, and plants his lips on both of them, causing her to scream and yank her arms away. He slaps her, and then she is submissive – a good little girl, nothing like Clovey, and certainly not like Clover.

After that, it’s better to just drift – barely exist.

 

 

Cato slips into her bed a few weeks later, and though she hasn’t seen or spoken to him in so long, his presence is more comforting than frightening. He doesn’t mention the hospital, and she doesn’t bring it up – silence is golden for a while.

“I fucking hate you, you know,” her first words to him.

“I know,” he grabs one of her hands and kisses her palm. “And that’s fine – as long as you hate me best.”

She softens then, gets the closest to crying since her first night on the job. “Always.”

 

 

They’re being prepped for an interview in the wake of another Games – relief is the first thing she thinks, because soon they won’t be obsessed with them anymore, they’ll have someone new to worship.

The stylists silently cover up her scars, Cato’s bruises. No one talks, and soon she is left alone with him.

After a while, he turns to the monitor surveying the crowd waiting for them and sighs. “I just can’t believe it.”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

He faces her, hands clasped tensely – a wreck, but only they know it – “I can’t believe I wished for this.”

Then the lights are flashing and they’re being rushed on stage – and it’s all focused on them, on their lives, made up of nothing but wishes.

 

 

They mentor two arrogant fourteen year olds – all talk, no might, as all the Careers end up being for the 75th Games. They both die in the Cornucopia, and she and Cato watch their blood spill –

the only feeling is jealousy.

 

 

They are a mess, splayed across the sheets and worked to the bone – by the Capitol, by themselves, by each other.

He is twisting a strand of her hair around his finger as he speaks. “I wish I could love you more.”

She too, wishes for it, but they love each other enough – as much as they can, while behind these bars.

 

 

When the Games are over, they are asked for one last hurrah – an interview with the new victor. They are asked to impart some wisdom, the shred of hope the girl will undoubtedly hold onto.

She doesn’t know it’s going to happen until the very moment before it does, as she and Cato share a glance before he begins talking. Then it’s all spilling out of him – the story of his first night being sold. She interjects quickly but powerfully with her own remarks, and it is enough to leave the new victor horrified.

They are shoved off stage as they’re laughing, cackling – pleased that they have brought down the Capitol’s little kingdom in less than twenty seconds.

Through the curtains, they watch as it all falls apart.

Cato, collected as he was a year and a half ago – before he was a victor of their Games, yet defeated, always defeated – finds Snow perched high above the others. Coolly and certainly, he raises his two of his fingers to his temple in the form of a gun –

they have pulled the trigger.

 

 

The Capitol, of course, doesn’t give them the courtesy of their spilt blood. Nightlock is their choice, and though it isn’t ideal, she and Cato are happy to oblige – as they always have.

Cato playfully dangles his berries in front of her mouth. “Always gonna be you and me, babe.”

Firmly set jaw, determined eyes, with a hidden affection and a want (a need) to kill. His Clover, for the rest of time – as it should have been.

“To us,” she raises her bushel as a mob comes to fruition outside, the screams growing in number and volume.

“To revolution.” He finishes her statement.

What an honorable thing to die for, after spending their lives as such abominable people.

She reaches out and begins tracing one of his bruises, an _I love you_ if there ever was one – and she realizes she never said it out loud, but it’s true, and he knows, and she knows, and that’s all they need. That’s all there ever is.

_Together, always._

Finally –

an end to all ends.


End file.
